Bad, Bad Gamble
by MiceLoveRice
Summary: Suddenly, he pushes you up against the wall, hard, but not too violently, and twirls a strand of your hair between his thumb and index finger. He leans in closer so that your lips are nearly touching and whispers, "what can you do that's worth a hundred mil?", and for once, you're at a loss for words.


**This story is written kind of differently. It's supposed to be written from a "you" perspective; you are in the story, you are the actual character. Because, I mean, who wouldn't want to be in a scene with Jeremy Renner, right?**

"You're looking pretty tense for someone sitting at a bar."

A husky voice mildly breaks you out of your trance of observing the variety of beer bottles gathered around the bar, and you instinctively gaze over at the source of the voice. He has himself leaned up against the table, arms crossed over his chest as he leans in closer to you, as if expecting to find you asleep. He seems pleasantly surprised at the fact that you're awake.

When you continue to observe him but not actually communicate, he says, "here, let me buy you a drink".

"No, that's fine," you mumble, turning your head back towards the bar and trying to find which bottle you had left off at.

The man is persistent, however. "Sweetheart, trust me. I'll be loaded in a few weeks." He smirks. "The least you can do is let me buy you a drink."

And that is where your refusals are put on hold. His determination is unnerving though. Does he plan on getting lucky and slipping a date rape drug into your drink? The thought irks you, and so you steadily keep your eyes on him, watching for any "subtle" movements he might make. Fortunately, he doesn't make any—not any that you noticed, anyway—and he's already handing you a bottle of Coors Light. Not the first choice you would have made, but it would be rude to refuse him. You take the bottle from his outstretched arm, noticing the word "gamble" tattooed along it in black ink.

"'Gamble'", you mutter to yourself and his eyes are automatically geared towards you. It's an unusual response, so you ask, "is that your name, or your hobby?"

The man gives you that same dark smirk he had given you earlier. It's a playful smirk, but one that hides something more to it behind it, something you can't put your finger on.

"Both," he teases in response to your question. "Actually, my name's Brian Gamble."

You introduce yourself as well, and now that the two of you have become more familiar, Gamble decides to take up that empty bar stool next to you, still keeping his back pressed up against the table. Some of the other bar inhabitants are cheering over a game of pool being played. Gamble grins in support of them.

After awhile, he directs his attention back to you. "You here with anyone?"

"No, no. I just came here to drown my sorrows," you unemotionally answer, taking a sip of your drink with your eyes continuously glued to the beer bottles.

Gamble chuckles softly. "You, drowning your sorrows?" He finally turns so that his body is facing you. "Sweetie, what's there to be sad about?"

"Well, let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

You take your index finger and circle the rim of the bottle, before turning to him, and ask, "what's there to be happy about?"

He stares at you for a moment, caught off guard, before he sharply inhales and replies, "you got me there."

The two of you remain seated in silence. It would be complete silence if it were not for Gamble constantly tapping his fingers, or constantly facing back and forth between you and the pool game happening behind you both. Does he have a low attention span or something? Regardless of his behaviour, you continue to guzzle down your drink until it's finally finished.

"Wanna play some pool?" Gamble tussles his hair a bit as he glances over at you.

Hesitantly, you direct your sight to the group of people at the pool table, noticing the women with their tight, low-cut t-shirts and the men with their muscular builds and tank tops. That isn't to say Gamble isn't muscular. After all, ever since he came to join you at the bar, you couldn't help but notice the ways his triceps pop against his black t-shirt, but Gamble's muscular arms aside, they aren't normally the kind of people you associate with. And you know you can't possibly fit in with them. Therefore, you decline.

Gamble grips the back of his neck with one hand at your response. "You're tough to crack," he whispers.

A large, dark man approaches the two of you, hauling a billiard stick at Gamble. He catches it, looks at you in case you might change your mind, and when you don't, he stands up and walks with the man over to the pool table. Since you've finished your drink, you figure it can't hurt to watch the game from where you're sitting, so you slide yourself around and focus in on the action. Gamble and the man are facing each other. The game doesn't last long though. Gamble ends up winning, and he gives off that famous smirk as the people around him begin to cheer.

You notice his cell phone must be going off from where he's standing because he reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, checking the number as he does so. Gamble's face suddenly goes serious, an expression you had never witnessed until now, and it piques your interest. You continue to observe him as he places the billiard stick on the table, disregarding the other players while he grabs his coat from a nearby seat and makes his way towards the entrance. Obviously it isn't a good idea to spy on someone while they appear to be in what looks like a private phone call, but you can't help yourself. Gamble has been so aloof the whole time that seeing a different side of him is fun. So you leave a few dollars in tips for the bartender and exit the bar as well.

A cool evening breeze greets you as the door pushes open and you make your way into the parking lot. Gamble isn't too far ahead; in fact, you can make out a lot of what he's saying from where you are, so you keep yourself plastered to the outside wall of the bar, listening in.

"T.J, we went over this already. You know what you need to do tomorrow, right?" He pauses. "Yeah, just make sure you walk outside with the rest of the S.W.A.T team, and keep Montel covered when I shoot at the helicopter. That $100 million is as good as ours." Pause. "Yeah, I'll be there on time, don't worry about me." He hangs up the phone and breathes in deeply. The words "shoot at the helicopter" resound inside your head.

Gamble approaches a dark coloured car and reaches to open the driver's door, but he stops abruptly. You think maybe he's caught sight of you, but the shadows of the building and darkness of the night should conceal your appearance.

However, you thought wrong, because Gamble suddenly calls out: "how much of that did you hear?"

You remain silent, glued to the wall, hoping he'll think he imagined it and continue into his car. He whistles and starts walking over to your direction. "I said, how much of that did you hear?"

Looks like you can't play dead anymore.

"Everything," you answer confidently.

Gamble chuckles as he awkwardly scratches his head. "That, uh, that conversation wasn't meant to be heard."

"Well, what part do you want me start with," you smugly ponder, "the helicopter, or the $100 million?"

Suddenly, he pushes you up against the wall, hard, but not too violently, and twirls a strand of your hair between his thumb and index finger. He leans in closer so that your lips are nearly touching and whispers, "what can you do that's worth a hundred mil?", and for once, you're at a loss for words. He smirks darkly at you, biting his lower lip. "If you join me, I'll cut you in on our profits. All you gotta do is some research."

"Research?" you repeat. One of his hands is now snaking up and down your waist, but you refuse to break eye contact.

"Me and some buddies are doing a hit tomorrow," he explains, "so I want you to research possible escape routes. Just small things like that." You don't have time to answer because he loosens his grip off of you and begins to make his way back to his car. "Don't think I didn't know who you were when I saw you at the bar," he calls back at you, "I'm coming back for you tomorrow."

With that, Gamble climbs into his car and drives off into the night, leaving you to examine his words while the sound of his car's reeving engine echoes in your ears.


End file.
